


The Trap of the Philosopher's Stone

by WingletBlackbird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Dumbledore's PoV, Gen, Philosopher's Stone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13248750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingletBlackbird/pseuds/WingletBlackbird
Summary: A version of the Philosopher's Stone that explores Albus Dumbledore's machinations behind the scenes, as well as the trauma that Harry has endured in more depth than we could have found in a children's series.(May be considered slightly AU, as I held no qualms about mentioning things earlier that J.K. wanted to keep as a surprise, since we know they're all coming anyway, and it made more sense within the narrative.)





	The Trap of the Philosopher's Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue from the first chapter of the Philosopher's Stone is used here. However, significant additions have been made in terms of Harry's guardianship, as we explore why Albus Dumbledore insisted that Harry be placed with his Aunt and Uncle.

******The Hand of Fate**

With a sharp pop, Albus apparated to Privet Drive wearing a large purple cloak, and high-heeled, buckled boots, relying upon the late hour--the Muggles were probably sleeping-- and the accompanying darkness to conceal his strange appearance. Indeed, he felt it would be quite remiss of him not to enjoy the somewhat relaxed attitude his fellow witches and wizards had taken to the Statute of Secrecy today. There had been so many infractions in the celebrations of Tom’s apparent demise that the Wizengamot had been forced to print a warning in the _Evening_ _Prophet_ that, while they were willing to pardon infractions today, under the circumstances, they would be handing out penalties to any and all violators starting tomorrow. Given that Albus had been there when the decision was made as Chief Warlock, he felt he may as well enjoy the very few pleasures that today, and yesterday evening had brought.

Still, it wouldn’t do to be entirely careless, he mused, especially given what would, no doubt, be a truly _subtle_ entrance from Hagrid, if Albus knew him at all. He began to search his pockets for his deluminator pausing in his rummaging only when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He chuckled. On a low brick wall there sat an aged tabby cat whose regal poise, and sheer stiffness could only have been Professor McGonagall.

“I should have known,” he muttered as he pulled out, and clicked the deluminator causing the light from the nearest pole-lamp to be extinguished. Minerva might be infamous for her stern countenance, but beneath that implacable veneer bled the heart of a truly dedicated mentor. Today's news would have undoubtedly been deeply upsetting to her both in it’s absurdity, and in the knowledge of the untimely deaths of two of her most gifted students, and fellow Order members. Albus would not  have expected her to have just accepted the news of the Potters’ deaths based solely upon the word of the oft-inaccurate _Prophet._ He clicked the deluminator for the twelfth time casting the street into darkness.

Walking over to the low wall across from 4 Privet Drive. Albus sat down next to the tabby cat. Deliberately not looking at her, so as to better surprise her, he spoke quietly.

“Fancy meeting you here, Professor McGonagall.”

Then, and only then, did he turn to offer her a smile, as she immediately, and efficiently morphed back into human form. Despite her usual pristine, and severe appearance--she had her hair back in a tight bun, and was wearing an emerald cloak--she appeared distinctly ruffled.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear professor, I have never known a cat to sit so stiffly.”

"You'd be stiff too if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day.”

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on.” She jerked her head towards the dark windows of number four.  "I heard it on their news. Flocks of owls... shooting stars.... Well, they're not completely stupid, you know. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

Albus felt that part of Minerva’s derision towards Diggle lay in the fact that Diggle, as a member of the Order, ought to have been showing the dead more respect. However, grief was never really so simple, nor was the situation.

"You can't blame them," he pointed out gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Minerva irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She looked sharply at him, and Albus knew she was hoping for answers, but he neglected to grant them as yet; it would be better to let her rant. He began fishing in his pocket for sweets. He was going to need a few if he were to successfully endure this conversation without neglecting his composure. If he were being honest with himself, after a difficult day with Remus, Severus, the Goblins, the Press, the Wizengamot, the Auror Department, and even his own brother, Albus did not feel quite ready for another discussion on the difficult, and delicate subject of Harry Potter and his parents, especially not when he had not prepared himself for it, and was anticipating the warmth of his bed. Sleep, he knew very well, could be a lovely form of escape.

"A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Albus?"

"It certainly seems so," he said. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbert lemon?"

"A what?"

"A sherbert lemon: They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," Minerva said coldly. Albus couldn’t say he was surprised; she had yet to learn the importance, he felt, of the smallest pleasures of life. They were best enjoyed at moments when the darkness seemed overwhelming...and, of course, it was only polite to offer, not that Minerva ever accepted of course. She did not have a sweet-tooth.

"As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." He elected to ignore her flinching. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.”

"I know you haven't, but you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," he responded calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

"The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

Apparently levity was to be ignored. Albus kept his eyes on the sherbert lemons he was unsticking. Minerva might find it tasteless, pun intended, but they provided a focus that he desperately needed to contain his own guilt. He would not be able to avoid her questions forever.

"What they're saying is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead. "

Albus bowed his head in lieu of a reply. Minerva gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."

Albus reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Her voice faltered as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill Harry, but -- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.”

Albus nodded glumly. Nothing that night had gone according to plan.

"It's -- it's true?" faltered Minerva. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Albus. "We may never know."  

Although, privately, Albus had his suspicions: He was certain it had to do with Lily’s research into the links between magic, blood, and the soul. She had discussed a few of the possibilities with him when asking for some help with the alchemical properties involved; Albus was noted for his deep understanding of blood magic, after all. In fact, that was one of the reasons they were here in this Muggle neighbourhood. However, with Harry being the first to survive a killing curse, well, they were plunging into unknown territories. It seemed that Lily had successfully adapted an ancient sacrificial rite. She truly had been an extraordinary gifted witch.

He wished, never had he so bitterly wished, except after Ariana’s death, that he hadn’t been so foolish. Once again, he might have done better to have listened to Aberforth, as Aberforth had of course reminded him. Still, he supposed with Voldemort vanquished, however temporarily, all hadn’t been in vain. There would be time now, in the interim, to plan again, and Harry was a vessel of hope. They had a better understanding now of how to win, which was more than they had held before, regardless of how much they’d been fooled by that prophecy. He’d been in for a knut, and now they were obliged to go for that sickle. (In the back of his mind Albus amused himself again with the thread of an unintended comparison to a fool and the Titan of Time who cut men down to their deaths with a sickle. He knew now he was both, and it was painfully and bitterly ironic.)

Minerva pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles and Albus gave a great sniff.

“And Sirius really betrayed them?” She further queried.

Albus sighed deeply.  “Yes. He was their Secret Keeper, and the secret could only have been revealed willingly. There can be no doubt-especially after what he did when confronted by young Peter.”

“I would never have guessed, never, Albus, that he could do such a monstrous thing. ”

“Nor I,” replied Albus. “However, betrayal is always a great shock, is it not? Why, if it were anticipated, well then it would never happen.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. It’s just all so-so shocking! Sirius was always a bit, wild, to be sure, but to have killed so many...”

“It was the act of a desperate man.”

“I suppose it must have been, but poor, poor little Peter Pettigrew…”

Albus nodded in agreement.

“Yes. The Wizengamot is going to grant him an Order of Merlin: Third Class for his actions. Lily and James will, of course, be getting First Class honours. They considered granting Harry one, but felt that it would be a bit absurd to grant an infant such an honour, when they don’t know precisely what it was he did in the first place-if he even did anything at all.”

He took his pocket watch out and checked the time. He looked deeply concerned.

"Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

He chose not to voice his fears that something may have befallen Hagrid and Harry on the way: Rogue and unhinged Death Eaters perhaps….

"Yes, and I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left. Sirius is, of course, now in Azkaban."

MInerva, jumped to her feet and pointed at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us, and they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," Albus spoke firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Minerva faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Albus, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! Everyone is talking about him! Do you realise what they’re saying about him? He'll be famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Albus, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can’t you see how much better off he'll be growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

If the boy took after James Potter at the worst of his teen years, that would indeed be doubly unfortunate. Albus knew it, and so would Minerva.

“There really is nowhere else to place him, my dear.” He added. “The Potters are all dead, if not from the war, then from the pox, so who will step in to be his guardian? Many would be willing, of course, but how many, given the interrelatedness of the pure-blood families, might be Death Eater sympathisers, or worse, Death Eater’s themselves? Whom shall I trust? And how shall I guarantee his safety? If there is a drawn-out custody battle, can I guarantee a satisfactory victor? One who won’t raise him to be the next Dark Lord? Or even kill him? No, no, he is best here, Professor. I am quite decided on that point.”

Minerva opened and closed her mouth several times, looking more like a fish than a tabby cat, but finally reached some measure of acceptance saying,

"Yes -- yes, you're right, of course, but how is the boy getting here, Albus?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

“I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Albus.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place, but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling noise, growing steadily louder, could be heard coming from directly behind them. Minerva stood and looked frantically down the street trying to discern the source of the sound while Albus looked upwards at the sky. As the sound crescendoed to a roar, a headlight could be seen from above and a large motorcycle touched down in front of them, the tires giving significantly under the weight of an enormous man.

Twice the height of the average man, and even larger than that in width, the rider had long, thick, and tangled black hair and a beard which hid most of his face. This man looked wild as if he had just stepped out of living life rough, as a hermit in the woods, entirely isolated from society. When he stepped off the bike, which seemed to be relieved to be rid of the weight, he placed feet the size of baby dolphins on the ground, and steadied the kickstand before looking at his spectators.

"Hagrid," greeted Albus, sounding relieved. "At last. I was quite beginning to worry something had befallen you along your way.”

“No, no Professor Dumbledore, sir. Just took some time to calm the lad, is all, but he fell asleep as we were flying over.”  With hands the size of trash can lids, he gestured over at the sidecar in which lay a bundle of blankets.

“Is that-is that Sirius’s bike?” Minerva asked looking completely gobsmacked and sitting back down on the wall again as Albus walked over to the motorbike.

“That it were.” Hagrid said distastefully moving to sit next to her. “Filthy, stinkin’ traitor. He wanted to have Harry, see? When I pulled him out of the ruins, after the aurors had checked everythin’, Sirius he shows up, an’ he looks white as a sheet, an’ he’s shakin,’ and everythin’-- and I comforted the bleedin’ traitor!-- I didn’t know it was You-Know-Who he was really sorry about, and he says for me to give him Harry, ‘cause he’s the godfather an’ all. Well, I told him no, Dumbledore said Harry was going back to Hogwarts with me, ‘til he was going to his aunt and uncle, and Sirius, he says to me to take the bike so as to get him there safe-like. ‘You can’t risk apparating with an infant’, he says, ‘or Flooing either. This’ll be the safes’ way to get him there,’ he says. Now, I shoulda realised somethin’ was up abou’ tha’. Why’d he give up his bike like tha’ see? Why wouldn’ he go back to Hogwarts with us? Truth was, he didn’ care about Harry a whit, and that bike was too recognisable for him. Looked Harry in the eye, the bastard, put the sidecar on for him, and said he’d be back after he took care of things. He’ll be back. Ha! Probably wanted revenge for his Master.” Hagrid shook his head and looked murderous. “He’ll be back. Over my bleedin’ body, he will be! It’s good they caught him so quick. Azkaban’s too good fer a traitor like tha.’”

Minerva nodded, faintly, looking quite dazed at all of the shocking events, even as Albus walked back towards them carrying the bundle in his arms. Minerva stood again to see the small toddler who lay inside. His eyes were closed and his face seemed innocent in spite of the events that had been happening around him, but under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning which belied the tranquility of his sleep.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Albus. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy.” If this one held a horcrux...Well, the effects could be rather unique. It was unheard of, but then it was best kept unheard of. It wouldn’t do for Tom to find out; it wouldn’t do for the public who would start calling for a child’s blood to find out either.

“I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well, we'd better get this over with." Albus clutched Harry closer to his chest and  turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I -- could I say goodbye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid, as he bent his great, shaggy head over Harry, and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss before letting out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Minerva, apparently having regained something of her composure. "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Minerva whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Albus stepped over the low garden wall, and walked to the front door.

He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, and tucked it inside Harry's blankets. He knew that Minerva was right, of course. A letter was not really the best way in which to convey such sensitive information. However, it was also that much harder to refuse a child when it was really the child you were refusing, and not some authority figure towards whom you would feel no sense of obligation or guilt. This would be a lot harder for anyone to refuse: An infant on the doorstep with a letter. He hoped that Petunia Dursley would be more inclined to soften her heart towards her sister’s son if she were to truly see how much the boy needed her.

He understood that Mrs. Dursley and Mrs. Potter had not gotten along very well. Indeed, James and Lily Potter seemed to have been pleased when their son had accidentally broken an, apparently quite ugly, vase she had sent for Christmas, but he rather hoped that Mrs. Dursley would love her nephew regardless of whatever unresolved animosity still existed between herself and her now late sister. If Aberforth had had a son, and then died, Merlin knows how he would have coped with raising what would have been sure to be a mulish, goat of a child, but Albus knew he would have cared for the boy regardless, even if he never understood the child. An opportunity for reconciliation with his only living sibling was not one he would ever pass by. He hoped that this instance would be the same, and that Petunia would care for the child as her own. Nonetheless, Harry would be safest here, not only because of the blood wards that would erect if Mrs. Dursley took him, but also because, as he had explained to Minerva, he could not guarantee the child’s safety anywhere else. A letter, he felt, offered the best chance that Harry would be brought into the home.

Firm in his resolve, he walked back to Hagrid and Minerva, and for a full minute the three of them stood and kept vigil over the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and Albus endeavoured to hide his tears. He could only imagine what fate would now condemn the poor boy to: To kill Voldemort before himself; His length of life determined only by how long it took before he could fulfill his destiny...

"Well," he said, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself back onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Albus, nodding to her.

Minerva blew her nose in reply. Albus turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped, took out the deluminator, and clicked it once causing twelve balls of light to speed back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange, and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured.

He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. Tomorrow, he would talk to Elphias Doge, some of his more trustworthy friends in the ICW, and to the Longbottoms about discovering Voldemort’s possible whereabouts, and about what means he might have used to ensure his survival. After all, if young Harry was indeed a horcrux, Tom must have been creating one as a fail-safe, or as a backup to other methods. A soul should not be split more than once; a soul should not be split at all. If Tom was not dead--and how could he be with the prophecy being what it was? and Harry being marked as he had been?--then the question remained of what other avenues of immortality a man who called himself “Lord Voldemort” might pursue. There was more than one way to tackle the pesky issue of life’s inevitable end, after all.


End file.
